Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
All of these buildings in New York City,
for whom have they fallen?
Should we build a city for the Master Humans,
to outer space,
to Disease Central Hospital with the power of satellites?
Disease Central Hospital
is the end of the line for heaven.
The end of the line for awards and winning.
The Capital of Capitalism has synthesis
in perception and cancer
and certification circles,
a.k.a. children.
All of it
born in
D.C.H. Systems.
When I face the toothbrush
I am scared.
Scared that I might feel uncomfortable
and choke on my tongue,
like the time when I was 22 years old
and drove down the highway alone
and choked on my tongue
in the middle of an anxiety attack
and had to grab hold of my tongue
with my hand so I wouldn’t swallow it.
Scared that this might all happen again,
that I might freak out in the middle of a meeting
and run out of the room crying.
These are the things that grown men do.
These are not the things that grown men do.
New Age religions
and business success books
teach me to never consider myself
with flaws or weaknesses,
to only accept my greatness,
never my vulnerabilities,
and never to admit to these.
Never give another person power,
control the power,
control situations,
control others.
Create your reality.
Be a white man.
I will go on vacation
to Playa del Carmen in May.
The skies will be warm and perfectly blue.
The scents of blooming flowers
and freshly made tortillas
come in through the windows.
The world will be what I want it to be.
Suffering doesn’t exist.
Who suffers?
Stop crying.
Get up and get out of here.
Not am I certain
of the United States Marine Corps.
Not have they won every battle.
Not is the look in their eyes
a violence bred of poverty.
Their alumni wear the moustaches,
their moustaches orderly like freedom.
Their moustaches, the stinkpots of freedom,
they are strong and smell of dank.
Order the conflicts for protection.
That our wars should never end.
People come home fucked up from them.
Many people never come home.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
In a train station full of people
No one would slow down
They’re all walking away
quickly
A child has fallen down
An old man too
But everyone keeps walking
fast
This is the United States of America
This is Korea
This is the way of life on earth
Now – the new way
They have to get to work
No one’s looking
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